BBCSH 'little bit'
by tigersilver
Summary: T'is a little something I am playing with, this. PWP with Thought, added. Read as you like?
1. Chapter 1

Author: tigersilver

Rating: NC-17 (I think, maybe. Yes, likely...)

Pairing: Sherlock/John Fandom: BBCSH

Word Count: NFI (WIP!)

Warnings/Notes: Tis a little something I am playing with, this. Read as you like?

* * *

Sherlock's got a stock line and he's not afraid to use it.

After a gun and a Chinese and a pool and madman, a Madam and a ravening H.O.U.N.D., he's re-evaluating his data set, though.

The doctor is a medical man: useful. Obvious, but indeed proven useful. 'Go deeper' Sherlock asks, and Watson does.

The doctor is a head shorter but packs a careful punch. His science isn't Sherlock's science (speaking of boxing, now; the art of fisticuffs) but it's more than adequate.

The doctor is socially adept. At times too much so, but Sherlock's not quibbling. Correction: Sherlock seldom quibbles.

The doctor is light to his dark, is compact to his lean: all in all considered, a pleasing parallel. There is balance, and Sherlock is terribly fond of balance.

The doctor is dating. The doctor is_ pulling_, which is the more surprising, and Sherlock is _not _pleased.

* * *

There are twenty-four hours in every day; Sherlock prefers to exact the most from them. Watson's a pernicious time-waster. He sleeps, he eats and he works as a locum. He flirts, which is atrocious on many levels, and he has an assortment of mates to waste his time with other than Sherlock. Worse, he appears to pick up more as he goes along (Lestrade, possibly even Donovan. Oh, god…Mycroft? Abominable!)

In that lowly span of hours, Sherlock chooses to spend his time usefully. Watson does also—to a point. Then he founders. Again with the sleeping, eating, chatting, and eternal hopeful eye towards a mythical, long-denied 'compleat' shagging.

Sherlock requires to divert Watson's wasted time to far more useful, rewarding endeavours: to wit, the Work.

This has not a thing to do with John's height, his eyes (clear, blue, honest) or his state of fitness, post-psychosomatic limp. Not a single thing.

The Doctor (John) proves oblivious, impervious and adamantly resistant to all Sherlock's attempts at amicable diversion. This will not do.

Sherlock finds himself somewhat illogically squeamish at the concept of insinuating certain narcotics into Watson's diet. Mores' the pity; efficaciousness is clearly called for.

Further, Sherlock has discovered he's a prior obligation he simply cannot refuse. Mad men should be put to death instantly upon identification of such (Mycroft agrees, Sherlock knows, but he's proving to be as ham-handed as always in the proper handling required) and Sherlock has been handed a duty. Mummy has always expected him to understand that 'Duty' comes first.

With age (and a certain amount of grace, quite possibly pick-pocketed from Watson) Sherlock juggles dexterously for a bit: Watson and Work. At times literally. There was the Circus incident.

It compounds his frustration immensely and to an incalculable degree that he has not found an opportunity to employ all his very estimable charms upon Watson.

See previous: fisticuffs, Watson's understanding of; see also, gun, Watson's possession of. There's no happy end to that road, Sherlock concludes.

Sherlock's got a stock line: It's not his 'area'. That deliberately vague and sweeping statement never precluded his prior exploration of such (a wearisome time, best forgotten, but useful, in the mechanical end of it, also criminal motivations). It may (it is) time to alter his studied approach. A little bit.

It's Watson's _area_, though.

In an act of near-desperation (mad man in the near offing) Sherlock charges in. Full-barrel, whole-heartedly, with enthusiasm. Well, more like he thinks intensely about his line of next attack.

Scenario is crucial, however: what choice? Bath, armchair, tea-making, bedroom, alley, crime scene, the Yard?

All are tedious, expected. Boring. Dull. Bah-and -humbug, as Uncle Sirius would say.

London, too. Tedious this season, and chock full of terribly close-by assassins (courtesy resident mad men, or one in particular.) It's clearly the best option, the only option, really—full retreat.

A general weekend away is proposed by Sherlock as an off-the-cuff holiday; is accepted eagerly (cue Watson's confused coos of pleased surprise.) It's not at all an illogical choice, though. (Sherlock rather enjoyed slouching about in the wilds of the moors, as he recalls; they are attractive, visually, and John deserves 'attractive, visually'. Besides, the owners of that bloody bed-and-breakfast owe Sherlock a huge favour; time to cash it in.)

Sheaths and essential items for the act of sexual congress are acquired. (Mrs Hudson will not cease her annoying winking-and-smiling act, though.)

Research is complete; Sherlock fully recalls all the details of the sex act, having undeleted them. Mad man deferred for the moment by artful dodging; Lestrade blocked from texting: no distractions on horizon.

Mycroft provides a car (as he should, the great arse, for complicating this matter beyond anything sensible.)

Mummy (dear God!) texts to Sherlock her approval.

* * *

Impervious, oblivious, adamant John Watson is bundled into the car (sans the Anthea-woman; grudging point to Mycroft for his forethought in removing a possible target of John-flirtation) and the two embark on their stolen-away and potentially 'dirty' weekend. 'Dirty ' in hypothesis, at least. Sherlock spends the entire travelling time mentally poking at the concept of 'filthy' to see how he likes it. He concludes he might very well be amenable, if only to update his data set. John naps.

"Right," John asks, sober-sided and very blue of eye, the moment they've plumped their bags in a room boasting one large bed and one bed only. "What are you up to?"

"Me? Nothing." Sherlock rolls his eyes. Derisively, but inside he's quailing. "Why ever would you assume—there's no evidence, John. You're barking up the wrong tree."

"Bull."

And with that strong statement, Watson takes off down the pub.

Sherlock lurks. On the fringes. Until John's had his two to get on with and waves him over.

"Sit," he says, patting the stool next to him genially. "Drink. Talk." He burps gently and equally gently edges a bowl of stick pretzels and a pot of seeded sweet mustard in Sherlock's direction. Ever hopeful, Sherlock's John is. "To me. What's going on with you, Sherlock?"

It's the apogee, the nadir. The head of the fount, cresting.

There's not _time_; Sherlock _doesn't_ know (as in, can't quite predict with accuracy) and he's_ frightened_ (terrified) and Watson—Watson is _very dear_.

Very dear.

"Time," he barks out. He can't help sounding low and gruff; there's no room for wiggle in John's searchlight azure gaze. Not anymore. "I don't have a lot of it; I want to spend it with you, John."

"Well."

And by 'spend', Sherlock means…well, he's prepared, at least.

John 'hmmm's' under his breath; cracks his neck easily, rolling it, eyeing up the deserted taproom. Sips his third pint slowly and nods kindly to the tender when he slides a bespoke whisky before Sherlock's clasped hands.

"Thanks, mate." The tender goes away again, but it's not far.

Sherlock cringes, a little bit. He'd prefer no audience. It's likely John might shoot him down.

It's quite likely.

"I thought," John begins, but then he stops speaking. Full stop, though his lips stay parted, just a bit. He licks them. Gives Sherlock the once-over, up and down. And grins. "And I appear to have thought right, this time. Correct me if I'm wrong?" he adds politely and Sherlock flushes scarlet. He gulps at his gifted whisky, though more because it's a method of stymieing his own unwary tongue.

He would very much like to reply 'Obviously!', but he doesn't. He doesn't.

Watson is entirely correct in his deductions. For once. But then, Sherlock couldn't have made it more clear.

"No? Alright."

Of this he is certain. 'Apply my methods,' he says to Watson, and Watson _does_.

The satisfaction in laying this particular trail of breadcrumbs is quite shallow and soon passes. He's not heard Watson's reply.

"And what do you expect, if I may ask?" Watson prods, and his smile is a little bit too jovial and Sherlock is suddenly of an impulse to down his entire tumbler in one go and beg for another. "Drawing upon your methods, mate? I can attempt, but why don't you just save us the trouble and tell me?"

_Of me._ That's the hidden phrase, the real arse-biter. It's what Sherlock wants of the Doctor (John) and he—to be terribly brutally horribly honest, does not know. Can't be sure.

"…Sherlock?"

But it's more than this, surely, this polite banter in a B&B's bar room, John jousting pretzels and Sherlock breathless with hard liquor, downed quick. No cases pending, no distractions, solely gone away for the chance to_ be_.

(Filthy, dirty)

_Be_. With John. Before he cannot (and sod those mad men and their foolish angry ways; Sherlock will never quite forgive himself for being even the slightest bit attracted.)

"Well," John says again, after a long pause. "Was thinking about a bite but it seems I'm not hungry, after all. For food. Come up, will you?"

Sherlock takes the opportunity to barge ahead of Watson and lead the way. It is a show of bravado he blames the whisky for entirely. But it does settle his gut and that's…good.

* * *

"Take off your kit, then," the Doctor remarks, a few moments later. Ever so casually, as he does the same. "Can't do this clothed, can we? Well, we can, but…"

Sherlock does. Does do precisely what John's doing, one cuff button at a time, one finger of each gloved hand.

He cannot _not_, and this is again 'his' area, he hopes. His territory, conquered. Yes, again, as it was once, long ago.

It is incredibly chuffing to see (and feel) his erection bulging impressively behind his tight sage-green y-fronts. And John's John Thomas isn't one to sneeze at, either. Sherlock _is_ pleased.

He's been circumcised; John has not (his more parochial upbringing, perhaps) but both organs are about the same girth, though Sherlock has a bit of a lead on John's length, as he does vertically.

Again, pleased, though the feeling is much more primal. Sherlock firmly stomps down the urge to giggle his Cro-Magnon triumph. He's fairly certain John won't like that.

"Well, come, then. Bed," John beckons and they sit, side-by-side at first, until John leans in and presses a brief kiss on Sherlock's naked shoulder. "That's nice," he mumbles, licking off the saline sheen Sherlock's already developed. "You don't taste of all those nasty chemicals, cheers for small favours."

Sherlock groans; there is no room in his mind for levity at this point in proceedings. It's past time, actually, to bring to bear the newly undeleted experiences of his 'area'.

"You might, you know?" John adds carefully, nudging his bared thigh and hip so it's almost atop Sherlock's and peeping sideways and up at him. Sherlock labels the look as 'flirtatious'. "Tell me how you like it. Not about to deduce, mate."

_What utter nonsense_, Sherlock thinks, eyeing John's smirk warily. Empirical works best in these conditions, always.

"_This_."

Sherlock has a possibly regrettable tendency to swoop. He leverages his height to advantage, more like. And John is eminently swoopable-upon, ergo.

John stares up at him wide of eye and spread-eagled of limb, having been smashed summarily into the duvet.

"I shall demonstrate." Sherlock blinks pointedly down at his flatmate, flexing his hips so their cocks rub in passing. "Problem?"

All larger concerns aside, this is practically a moment of truth, here.

John shakes his head: 'No!' He doesn't articulate his enthusiasm but then Sherlock doesn't require it. He can plainly see everything he needs to: erect nipples, heavily engorged cock, tightening of the abdominal muscles, perspiration springing up in John's chest hair and under his armpits, leaping tendons in the neck region, dilated pupils, rapid pulse—the litany goes on. Evidence.

Sherlock's lips twist; he can't stuff back a chuckle.

The kicker is the Doctor's return smile for Sherlock. It's slow and mischievous and very, very inviting.

"Have a go, then," he murmurs and hooks a ready elbow round Sherlock's neck, hauling his head and shoulders within a reachable distance. A bout of rather sloppy, nipping, slurping mouth action ensues. "You're the brilliant one here, aren't you? Show me; prove it."

Sherlock's eyes flash green: a challenge!

His nostrils flare wide and he instantly employs all the tricks he has in waiting: the pelvic thrust-and-roll, the suction applied to the sensitive area of the collarbone, the tongue tip twisted wetly into the ear canal, the panting and huffing of an oxygen-intake system suddenly functioning at a much higher rate of speed.

He moans John's name, because that's always highly effective, and he makes certain to keep their persons always in contact. He fingers John's ribcage, telling out the bones. He grips his hips and he fondles John's drawn-up tight be-furred bollocks; all of this is most satisfactory. And he throws his all into the snogging that's going on, because he wants to.

There is nothing here that is a turn-off, nor off-putting. John Watson is very tasty and Sherlock has worked up an appetite.

But the surface of their respective skins pull against each other: it's a bit dry down there even with the beginnings of pre-cum smearing about. Time, then, for the aides Sherlock has acquired, before damage results and there's bruising he doesn't intend. He does, actually, intend for some bruising, but more in the manner of visible love-bites, applied at and above collar level and then, too, perhaps a few scattered about on John's nice, tight arse cheeks.

Or across one of his thighs. As they are—he examines one quickly and concludes—quite delicious.

He swarms out of the bed without vouchsafing a single warning word (he's sure John will wait on him with some degree of patience and understanding) and goes about tearing into his overnight, still on the floor by the door. The supplies are quickly located, being the last thing Sherlock packed prior to their 'retreat', and he's bounding back atop John before a 'boo' may be said to a randomly passing goose.

He has the tube open and the sheath packet torn in an instant.

But then John lays a hand over Sherlock's busy fingers and says 'No.'

"No," John says, quite equably. "Sherlock, stop."


	2. Chapter 2

_It is the same_. Same. Exact. Emotion.

As the Pool.

There is not a sound to be heard.

Well, they are both breathing hard, yes, and the bed creaks faintly under Sherlock's knees where he's kneeling and there's the crinkle of foil wrapper and the slip-slide of his trembling fingers curling tight (so tight) around John's intruding knuckles. There's random birdsong from outside the many-mullioned windows, arising from the early evening twitter of sparrows and then, far off in the distance, a dog bays, eerily reminiscent of the Hound. But other than that, there's dead silence.

Dead. Which accurately describes the state of Sherlock's internals at this precise moment in time.

John chokes himself into a muffled snort-snuffle of amusement. Kindly amusement.

"God have mercy, but you're dense as a bloody thicket sometimes, mate. Not that sort of 'no', you great tit."

Sherlock's body automatically restarts the respiratory process. He rocks back with a belated jolt but doesn't even think to ungrip his fingers from the warm curl of John's palm and spread knuckles.

"Oh." He breathes; it feels pretty… good …to do that, yes. _Interesting_. "'Kay. Then." He blinks, his gaze narrowing and sharpening upon the Doctor's face. "What?"

"You're not bumming me, Sherlock; that's all. I know you're a genius with total recall and all that, but it's my arse on the line and just…no. Switch up. Move along now."

The Doctor doesn't wait about; he's already in motion, shoving Sherlock bodily aside and over, squirming agilely out from under him. "Upsy-daisy; here we go." He exercises those jersey-disguised upper arm muscles of his adroitly.

"…That's much better," he remarks, when Sherlock's the one with his back flat to the mattress. "Now. Where were we?"

"..Oi." Sherlock is inclined toward experiencing a species of minor shock. John is always—always—setting him back on his heels one way or another and here's another example of that—and he's not decided how to react, quite. "Eh?"

On the one hand, he has engaged in this sort of activity in his earlier-gathered repertoire; on the other, it wasn't particularly his favourite activity of the trials.

"Oh, yes," John grins round at the items scattered about the wrinkled duvet. "I'll just borrow this, then. Ta."

Contrarily…there are points to be given for the stimulation of the prostate gland and he's sure as the sun also rises that the doctor knows just how to go about that sort of thing properly.

John unrolls the sheath Sherlock had intended for his own use straight down the length of his cock with a practiced hand. Sherlock notes in passing that John's member is as erect as before; there's been no loss of rigidity or fullness due to the interruption.

_Same goes_, he observes, spying his own. If anything, he's harder than he was before.

And contrarily again, he has a major objection to being done as opposed to doing the doing and this is a situation which threatens to escape his precarious comfort zone completely.

"I don't—" Sherlock assays, finding himself struggling for the correct words to use so as not to offend John but to also discourage him from pursuing his current course. "Think."

"Yes, you do," John points out, grinning. "Far too much." He bends down over Sherlock's person, crouching and places a lubricated palm upon Sherlock's straining cock. "All the time; that's the issue. So, please—just for the moment, I'll ask you to stop."

John kisses him, just lightly. "Hey?" Teasing little nips that are echoed by his teasing little touches about the blunt, tickly end of Sherlock's dick.

"Mmm," Sherlock allows, grudgingly. "Mmmph!"

He _is _pleased again—can't deny it, however much he'd prefer not. And he is also dissatisfied, but more because the Doctor (John) is all at once taking far too much care with the dick in question.

"Not a measly woman, John," he bites out acerbically, opening his eyes wide only to narrow them into a pointed glare. "Go at it, will you? _More_." And impatiently waits for John to take him up on it, which of course John does do.

The question of whom it is shall be putting what where seems to have fallen by the wayside entirely, in favour of ramping up the velocity of the actual intention to act. This is a mutual and mostly silent agreement between the two parties involved and Sherlock is a bit grateful to John for his exquisite sense of tact.

Perhaps…perhaps it will be an improved experience for him, as it is John driving the bus, as it were.

"That I can do," John promises, and applies immediately technique. Sherlock groans; the Doctor's hands are gifted, indeed.

"Faster," he requests, not particular politely. "More. _In_, if that's what you're on about. Get along, John."

"Jesus, Sherlock." John smiles down at him, clearly far more at his ease than Sherlock is. "You're a bloody menace. Give it moment, will you? Sphincters are tricky things."

"Fuck my sphincter!" Sherlock exclaims, wriggling his hips forward and up so that the exploratory fingers on John's other talented hand will slip into 'penetrate' mode all the quicker. "Fuck it!"

That has John laughing and taking his hands away to bring them up before his scrunched-up hilarity-face. He may be hiding it out of concern for Sherlock's fragile (hah!) ego, but Sherlock finds it absurdly infuriating.

"What did I just say? Don't stop now, you idiot," he grits at huffing John through clenched back teeth, and captures John's hands to place them firmly where they were supposed to stay busy all along: his privates. "Stimulation's the key here. You cannot simply cease in the midst and expect me to go along with it. Keep at it; I'm nearly ready."

"No, you're not," John giggles, fortunately exerting the dexterity of those digits once more, "but soon enough. Slow down, Sherlock. This isn't a race to the finish line. Let me take my time. It'll be better that way."

_Yes, it is_, Sherlock wants to riposte. See: mad man, in London. See: silenced mobile, abandoned for the moment in his trouser's pocket but likely overflowing with texts. See: he's feeling horribly nervous and any delay only heightens the uncomfortable feeling.  
"Please," is what he actually speaks aloud—well, it's more a rough whisper—and he's hoping his likely honest expression will handle the nuance-laden conveyance to John, speaking to the rising tide of amorphous terror he is currently harboring in his twisting gut. "John."

"Oh." John again sits back on his haunches, startled, but he's not laughing this time; far from it. "Yes, all right. We won't delay, then."

What Sherlock adores about the Doctor is that he's a quick enough study. Nothing like his own level, but still excellent, comparatively speaking.

The nausea subsides when John pushes the knob-end of his cock right up tight to Sherlock's arsehole and uses his slippery fingers to guide it in.

There's another of those dead-silent pauses, but this one is nothing like the Pool. This is much more of the same emotion Sherlock felt when the Doctor (John) said aloud to him that very first 'Amazing!'

It's not cathedral-quiet for long. Breathing does indeed become a necessity, especially as Sherlock feels the hurried entry like a windmill fist slammed into his solar plexus. It smarts, yes it does, and fuck him for a lark, but he is briefly visited by the faint regret he has neglected to keep up his practice of this sex thing everyone always goes on and on about. He winces; it would've certainly reduced the strain to his stretching, expanding innards.

"Hah! Gah-hah!" he gasps, and John frowns and instantly caresses Sherlock's member back to an acceptable level of interest. That serves to distract and then—lo, success at last!—John's cock is fully inside Sherlock's arse and he attentively attempts to smile up at his flatmate's worried expression. As he recalls, he is meant to be expressing enthusiam at this point in proceedings.

"That—" he huffs, doing a bit of limb-and-arse adjustment of his own and also residually relishing the hard grasp John has upon his one cocked hip. "That wasn't so awfully horrible, actually. Now?" He essays an arch stare at his penetrator. "Do you think you can finally get on with it? I did mention a shag to be had, some time ago. I remember clearly the goal, here. Getting off, wasn't it?"

Sardonicism is and always has been one of Sherlock's favourite methods of communication with other members of his species, at least in part because he uses it (and its cousins, sarcasm and irony) without thinking. No sweet-talker, he; what would be the point?

John snorts. "You're a git and half, Sherlock. Fine." He doesn't hesitate to withdraw his prick rather too fast ('Uh, uh, uh!' Sherlock says to that) and then slam it right back in again to the utmost (Sherlock acknowledges that with an 'Ack!'). "There. Happier now?"

"Much!"

"Brilliant," John growls, engaged in that fast in-and-out motion again, much to Sherlock's gratification, "then give me a little peace-and-quiet here, mate. You're throwing me right off my game."


	3. Chapter 3

John's game, Sherlock concludes, is a good one. He likes the competent ones, the specialists. John's that. In matters of the flesh, he's more than all right.

It's a _shove-thrust-up_ motion that has Sherlock grabbing frantically for the headboard. And squeaking, god help him.

It's the _quick-back-reverse-slide_ that has his jaw hanging gormless—but briefly, as he's yelping after. "John, jeezus—bloody—ah-ha!" It's all going a bit faster than he recalled it, post-deletion, but that's all right. That's all right.

That's John. Tongue poking out between his teeth, a concentration-frown furrowing his forehead; he's attending to this shagging seriously, this business of fucking, and Sherlock literally takes fresh heart from the expression on Watson's face.

Which leads to a period of confused shouts, some wispy murmurings and a great deal of happy friction resulting.

This, despite the thickness of the rubber and the irksome excess of lubrication, which deadens the experience a fraction.

This, because it appears that cocks are an instrument of decided pleasure for the senses and damn, but Sherlock is not a monk, really. He likes his silk and his tea and the feel of rosin on his fingertips. He flat out adores the over coat he owns, though his stupid brother gave it him.

"Oh, god, yes—yes!"

"Yes, okay now, that's it; that's _it_, right _there_, yes, please—Sherlock, _oh Sher_—!"

The last of the pillows—save one, the one John wedged thoughtfully under Sherlock's arse cheeks—is gone away in a trice. The bedclothes are rucked up, fucked up and pretty much shot to hell. There's a great deal of very sloppy mouth-to-mouth contact as well as several toothy near-misses, but the upshot is: this is bloody well good. More than bloody well brilliant, speaking precisely. Sherlock has no objections left to raise about being the one done.

It's a little bit of heaven, right here. And Sherlock doesn't ever even entertain the concept of 'heaven', normally.

And John Watson, oh, that John Watson—he is all about the _doing_.


	4. Chapter 4

"Oh, my, love," John gasps, and bites Sherlock, hard, right on the earlobe. "You're bloody amazing, aren't you?"

That's' not an actual question, sadly. It's then it becomes a tricksy wicket.

"_Love_?" Sherlock nearly loses his voice, he reaches for such high registers with his constricted tonsils. Oh, bloody hell!

'Love', as Sherlock understands it, is a messy, disgusting, oft woefully painful state. He objects, soundly, on principle.

"Oh, no," he groans, hearing the word 'love' reverb in his inner ear, and tightens up, unbearably, which only results in a rather opposite effect: John goes harder, deeper, stronger. "Oh, god, John!"

"God, _yes_, Sherlock! Yes!"

Apparently John's taken Sherlock's various responses for a unilateral encouragement.

Noises, random or whatever, aside, they are both derailed from talking, much less thinking, for several crucial moments. Now is the time of spewing forth, of coming, of great and excellent ejaculation of sperm.

Exquisite. _Chaconne_. No…! _Winter_?...No. _Ave_? Saint Saens _Capriccioso op.28_…? Close; no cigarette. Again, **no**. No music is like _this_. There is no score written.

Sherlock's a little bit re-formatted by it, actually. Takes him a moment or more to realize he's been. There's new code overwritten his old. Undeletable. God, but Watson's an insidious little git!

'Ejaculate': so dry a word, so medical. It doesn't begin to convey what they're left with, after. The smear of Sherlock's pulsing on John's stomach; the fullness at the tip of the withdrawing condom John's wearing. The sloppy urge Sherlock has to put his arms about his flatmate and fucking cling. And be clung to; he's not alone in this. Oh, no, he's not.

"It's all right?" John elbows him gently when they both roll over to sprawl out on their sweat-sticky backs. In their quite damp bedding. "You. You're all right…Sherlock?" Their fingertips are just touching; it's likely the most romantic moment Sherlock has ever experienced.

John puffs out a sigh of repletion at Sherlock's indeterminate groan. He pats Sherlock's hand. Galling.

Not dull, though. Not when it sends an electrified jolt straight through Sherlock's chest like that. Whew!

"Well. I know_ I_ am," he goes on cheerily, choosing to interpret the groan and the immediately following loud inhalation as a positive, perhaps incorrectly. Perhaps_ not_. "That was a little bit brilliant, if you ask me. Not that you generally _do._ Ask my opinion, that is, but…hey. I'm good. I'm fine. I'm more than fine, you know? Right on board with it. And we should maybe go again, soon—that is, when you've caught your breath, mate."

"Errr…kh!?"

Sherlock blinks rapidly._ Again_? **Now**? Aghast, he takes stock of himself. Brain, on line once more, barely, clocking over—check. Body, out for the count as to the ability to rouse itself in a meaningful, active sort of manner—_not_ check. Sperm—used up. Needs to be replenished by ingestion of liquid. Cotton mouth, a condition that can be employed to explain away his very unusual state of muted wonderment.

Arse. Check. Very obviously in place. Accounted for.

Mobile, location unknown. Pity.

"…_Kay_?"


	5. Chapter 5

"Knkh! **NO**!"

Gathering himself, Sherlock pounces, growling. It's what he does when he's curious, and curiosity has always provided him the most sublime of excitements.

"**_No_**," he informs a startled John's wide blue eyes—oh, and that shade of blue? Most spectacular, quite unusual—"I don't think so. Like _this_."

He's tall enough and long enough of limb and torso when horizontally laid out to effectively pin John's twitches to the mattress admirably. It is very pleasant the good doctor shows absolutely no signs of being willing to fight him, though. If he did, Sherlock would be impelled to call upon all of his depleted reserves and he's already stretching them to the utter limit.

"**_This_****.**"

Sherlock bobs his chin at John and waits extraordinarily patiently for the man to clue in. He blinks when it takes far too long—three seconds wasted already! He budges the head of his cock quite comfortably between John's sticky thighs, bumping it up against blond-furred bollocks. It's quite…good, that sensation. Especially now he can really take the time to appreciate it.

As time ticks away, whilst the Doctor is _thinking_.

John's eyes narrow and he purses his lips, the way he does when he's considering some act of Sherlock's, or some scheme of Sherlock's, or perhaps what he must say to ensure either of those things are palatable to the rest of tedious humanity. He nods, finally.

"Right, go on then. Superman."

"What?"

"Superman. You heard me."

That little crinkle of skin at the corners of the doctor's eyes when he's almost, just barely, stuffing back a wide grin? It slays Sherlock completely. However—no matter.

"I don't understand the reference. Is it Shaw, John? What's a noted English playwright got to do with my shagging you rotten? Or did you mean Nietzsche? Although it's very flattering of you, even I'm aware I'm not quite on par with Napoleon or Caesar, thank you. Not logical, John—there's very few parallels. Well…there_ is_ the intellect part of it."

"That there is, but. Never mind, love," John murmurs, craning his neck enough so he can lay a little lip to Sherlock's parted ones. He nips on the lower one, the one that's always been far too fat in Sherlock's opinion, and lays back again. Completely at ease. "I can afford to be a little bit illogical right now, as I've just damn near blown my brains out, shagging _you_. You remember that happening, don't you? Just now? Haven't deleted it yet? But carry on, please, Sherlock. With whatever it is you're planning."

"Right then, _be_ an arse, John."

Right, then. He's _not_—it doesn't matter. But_ not _an arse,_ not_ with this. Not with _John_. He tries not to be, at least.

No, what matters is cocks. Shoved up together and Sherlock's hand down.

Dry, like his mouth, but there's a chemical substitute.

He surely hopes Dr Watson is all right with that. Men are different. Watson is different. And he's fucking John.

He's _so_ fucking John, as it's parity. Data. Reasonable. And he wants it, and Sherlock so seldom wants.

"Condom?" he asks, with a bit of gasp—oh, yes, that's brilliant, yes, the way they feel, wrapped in his hand—"**JOHN**?"

John's on it, capably, of course. Army doctor—no, just _doctor._ Sherlock's prick is sheathed in slick easy seconds and John's grinning up at him. Egging him on.

"Oh, yes."

He remembers—he recalls everything, every detail, of Sebastian (argh!) and Victor (oh, nothing special), and Willam (pleasant fellow, lovely accent) _and _George (drunk; really shouldn't have)—this is _nothing_ like that—them. This is John. Jacking wide his hips and thighs and saying 'yes, yes!' for all he's worth.

Bloody _hell. _Love's been mentioned. Twice, now. Horrible!


	6. Chapter 6

He slides in. Recalls seeing John's fingers briefly busy at first, his face screwed up in a puzzle. It had mystified him, a little bit, two seconds strung together, the pause before the plunge, but this was the result: easy entry. Full thrust. Spot on.

Oh—**fuck**. It is amazing, the heat of another human being, the clench. But not 'easy'. The pressure. He's half driven out of his formidable mind already and they've barely done more than rocked together. He's—fuck!—he's half driven out of John's _arse_ and it's a push and rictus of grit to get his prick back in. Maybe should've been a little longer, the twiddly finger thing John did?

In, in, in—glory!

"John. John?"

"Yesssss!"

Undelete, then, and yes, Sherlock recalls.

Recollection is overwhelming, those are pitiful points of reference; he'd much rather stare into eyes of navy blue. With brown flecks in them, swimming about—no, hazel.

He—loves? NO. That can't be…that cannot be…so.

Sherlock kisses, deferring the point. Kisses mouth, throat, shoulders, earlobes, nose, hair, wrinkle on forehead, eyelashes. Very dear, all of those little bits of John.

"John." It means 'darling'. Direct equation, no deviation. Ah! He's fanciful when fucking his favourite person on earth, apparently. "Oh, John…" Groaned out at a low, dark rumble, so low it pains his chest muscles, and he's so much in pleasure he's in pain, for pity's sake! "…John…"

Sherlock does, however, have the strength of mind to pin his gaze upon John's expressions. All those clues gone to waste? Abominable!

He racks and yawls and breathes hard through his flared nostrils, ramping over John's straining taut body like some beast in heat. This is effort. So much effort. Legwork.

"Oh! _Good_—oh! Fu-uh!—uck, Sherl—hrnck!"

"John, John, John!"

Oh. There's that feeling again, the one that hurts him in the most peculiar manner. Sherlock remembers it, from the Pool, from the gun and the jacket, and the silence in the flat after.

He's afraid of it, like he's afraid of nothing else. Silence. Dead saline silence—no John.

"_Please_."

T'is no emptied mobile to trip memory, t'is no last 'Good bye, Mr Holmes', t'is no feeling of Very Not Good when examining the face of one Molly Hooper at one silly Christmas party or even the cow-like features of one Jeanine…Badcock, was it?** Bint**. Cow. Disappointing example of femininity, highly unsuitable; John would have had to have known that going in. _No_. Leave the cow woman deleted—not important. Focus on Watson. Who is glaring? _Why_ glaring?

"John?"

"You're an_ idiot_—bloody come _here_, will you? You great tit. Put your back into it!"

He's _not _wrong. Sherlock is never wrong. Even in un-deletion, in areas he's not quite got his footing. No, he's not wrong.

"All of you now, She-Sherlock! **_Oh_**!"

That's…yes! He exerts himself, and so does the doctor. _His_ doctor, blogger, person, partner, Sherlock's own. That's…that thing, that emotion, isn't it? Akin to love, what he feels toward Mummy, even toward that great git Mycroft but not quite.

Not quite. This is…the space in between, just for him. Sentiment. Sheets and 'Hamish is a good baby name' and 'England will fall.'

England probably will, if Sherlock doesn't…if Sherlock _can't_…but he can. He is able. Agitated, but able, due to John Watson. One man, pivotal. His nexus. His—ah! Language fails—there's always music.

It's in Sherlock's head; he hums it, giggling. Giggling, and giggling like a barking bloody Bedlamite when spending the little bit of spunk he's got remaining in his seminal vesicles—it's a great flustration. Abysmal business. Asinine to the extreme. But he can't say he's not enjoying it.

NO…not at all!

* * *

In the morning after it's all little soft snores and whiffles from his supine bedmate and the contemplation of ordering tea to the room.

Continental. Or go down. Hoi polloi, such as it is in this twee establishment. Eat veg omelettes and consume coffee. With Americans and impoverished fishermen? Bah!

He'd rather have a go at Watson again. _John_.

It's only the waking that's the problem. Of John.

It's at least two hours just spent cataloging, whilst the light creeps in cat-like through the poncy lace curtains. But…it's worthwhile. Mad man—in the offing? Sherlock will require every memory. Perhaps, one day. But not yet.

Oh, yes. Better this than that. By quite a little bit.

Quite an amazing little bit.

These little bits? They add up.


End file.
